Do Not Go Gentle
by Machiavelli Jr
Summary: In any war, there are a few who just won't accept defeat. In this war, the Ministry has long since made its choices and there are only six left fighting for what they believe in. They won't die quietly. Oneshot, no ships.


There should have been a thunderstorm. There should have been thunder to shake the very heavens as the last, least hope of the wizarding world flickered out. Instead, a grey mist draped the lonely stone keep of Castell y Gwynt and the top-floor room where Susan Peverell was reporting to her commander.

"We're stuck, Sir." Not the 'Sir' of an Auror, but of a student to a familiar, almost-friendly teacher – exactly what the man in black had been, before taking over the leadership.

"Stuck? How so?"

"Well, this place is warded nearly as well as Hogwarts, we've got no brooms, the Floo is watched, half of us are in no state to Apparate and I don't fancy walking with a transformed werewolf. The… Aurors," her face screwed up in disgust, "or the thugs they call Aurors, will be here before we can escape." No more room for hope, for last-ditch escapes or cunning stratagems. Once the Ministry had finally, irrevocably fallen the number of faithful wizards and witches had declined sharply, until this tiny remnant was all that remained. Another voice spoke up,

"Nivealis won't let any of us live, will she?" _Nivealis_. The only name to excite the same fears that _Voldemort_ or _Potter_ had, before both vanished into thin air. The half-deranged woman now in command of what passed for the Aurors was completely merciless. Like most on both sides who had survived the Third and last Battle of Hogwarts, she no longer used her real name for fear of reprisals.

"Unlikely. Not that myself, two others fit for action, one schoolgirl, one who should be in St Mungo's and one aged werewolf are going to present much of a challenge to even those incompetent excuses for Aurors." The Leader's usual cynicism had come on in leaps and bounds during the long flight, to the point where nobody was entirely sure whether he was still there out of conviction or merely morbid curiosity.

Susan burned with the shame of being called a schoolgirl, but held her tongue. Hadn't she given up everything for the cause, gone against centuries of 'respectability' to stand where she belonged and outlived most of the hardened veterans? Yes, but he had given up a thousand times more, even the chance to switch sides permanently, receive untold honours and be restored to his old job at Hogwarts, the one thing he had craved for decades and enjoyed for only a year. If anyone had the right to belittle her sacrifice, it was the enigma once known as Professor Severus Snape.

His was one of the few names she knew, as she had been almost the very last recruit, long after the war 'ended' at Third Hogwarts in near-total defeat. Most of the others she preferred not to guess at. To hear the _Daily Prophet_ tell it, the people they might be had been some of the foulest criminals since Grindelwald. On the other hand, the battered ex-auror currently sharpening a dagger in the corner named those same 'criminals' with nothing but admiration for their opportunity and willingness to take the fight to the enemy.

The other 'fit for action' was much younger, tall and pale and almost heartbreakingly handsome; it was universally understood that where Snape went, he would follow. In less dark days, there had been a great deal of ribald speculation about that; now Susan was just grateful that kept fighting without being quite as grim as the old guard. Rumour had it that he too had been offered amnesty, but had had too many private enemies to dare accept.

Susan shivered slightly, remembering how she had gone to bed as a small child with dire warnings that this smiling killer's family would come to get naughty little witches. They had, in a manner of speaking. Come to get her away from an ersatz Hogwarts, teaching just enough to survive to 'the right sort of people'. The real thing had vanished with the death of the last proper Headmaster, before the subjugated Ministry took complete control - _and now we're all that's left_, a tiny voice whispered somewhere in her head.

A wordless crooning from a dark corner drew Susan's attention. She shuddered in revulsion at the sight before her, as she did every time she saw what had once been called 'the most brilliant witch of her age'. Nobody knew what she had seen during her long captivity, though everyone knew how it had ended. Susan had been there herself, on her very first mission, and it was difficult to forget the memory of the prisoner's brother-in-law calmly standing before her tormentor, buying them time to escape as he died under the Cruciatus curse. His heroism, though, had come too late, and their rescuee could barely function. Indeed, she could cast only one spell, but the effect of a Cruciatus from a mind three parts lost was… striking.

The werewolf was little better. Twenty years of war and hardship had left him afflicted by arthritis, his pack were long-dead, his legendary strength of will abraded by defeat after defeat. He too had an enemy, a traitor he had once called brother. His single-mindedness on the subject was quite frightening, to the point where he would cheerfully die as long as he did so with his fangs locked around the traitor's throat. Susan, at least, had never doubted that he would get his wish.

And he would have one more chance. A magically-amplified voice boomed "This is Percival Weasley, Head of Magical Law Enforcement. On the duly-constituted authority of the Ministry of Magic, you are under arrest for treason, murder, rape, kidnapping, extortion and Apparating without a licence."

_Oh_. That list was more than enough to see them all dead, though she didn't quite see where Apparating without a licence came into things. Maybe the Ministry's puppet had got a little too enthusiastic with the charges – he obviously thought it was a big deal if he'd turned up in person. He added a few more threats and blandishments, but might as well have saved his breath. What could be worse than certain torture and death?

Snape spoke, "Much as I despise Gryffindor heroics, we seem to be somewhat lacking in alternatives. At least kill Weasley, somebody. I don't think my soul could bear knowing that I was beaten by a traitor. Peverell!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Come with me."

Mystified, she followed him into a begrimed and ancient pantry, which obviously hadn't been cleaned since the Founders' day. Snape sat down amid the filthy pots and pans, looking every one of his fifty-odd years for the first time in Susan's memory.

He spoke, an unusual rasp in his voice, "You are aware, Miss Peverell, that I assumed the title 'Heir of Slytherin' after The Battle" – she could hear the capital letters in his voice, "- in order to confuse the enemy."

"Of course."

"Have you ever wondered, at all, why I did so? Why no 'real' heir has come forward to expose me for the imitation I undoubtedly am?"

"Isn't that obvious, sir? It'd be almost blasphemous for anyone to claim _that_ title. We all assumed it was true, because nobody would dare lie. And there isn't another Heir. Nobody knew there was _one_ until… well, until."

"Ridiculous. Fear of a dead wizard's name is absurd, even that one. And this time, he really is dead. Not," he gave a tight grimace, "that it availed us very much. Well I can assure you, Miss Peverell, that as of six years ago there were three living Founders' Heirs – two of Slytherin in the direct line, one of Hufflepuff."

Feeling rather confused, and doubtless with an expression of utter crogglement, Susan asked the question that had been burning her since her old teacher has called her aside, "Yes, Professor" – a slip there – "but what has this got to do with the fact that we're all about to die?"

To her great surprise, no explosion was forthcoming, "A very cogent question, Miss Peverell. I suppose that the Headmaster would have wanted you to know."

"The Headmaster? You mean Professor-"

"Yes. _The_ Headmaster, not the dunderheaded fool occupying the tower today. As you have doubtless gathered, the news is that you are the last surviving Founder's heir. By direct descent, your father is Heir to the Domus Serpentos. I suppose, somewhere, there is an inheritance waiting for you. The other, by the way, was Zacharias Smith, who chose the wrong side at Second Hogwarts," Snape sounded notably unfazed by this fate. The number of times he'd changed sides himself, such elementary errors barely rated notice. Of course, he'd got it rather badly wrong somewhere, "supposedly, one Heir can always recognise the others, though of course that is now irrelevant, and Hogwarts will recognise their wishes and needs to some extent. A textbook example would be the so-called Defence Against the Dark Arts curse-"

Susan could restrain herself no longer; "And how is this supposed to help when we're all about to die?" It never even occurred to her to ask why Snape of all people was so respectful towards the man he was supposed to have killed.

"It isn't. I just thought you should know what they're about to kill. What you are, whoever you fight for. And I wanted to savour the victory, to imagine how delighted Potter or Lucius Malfoy would have been to hear that the war would end without a single Founder's heir among the living. Lucius always was convinced the Weasleys were descended from Gryffindor – he could never forgive them for it."

Susan didn't know what to think. To hear now that the family legend she'd always denied was true, _now_, when she could do nothing with the information, was heartbreaking, but there was a tiny part of her that shared Snape's black satisfaction, and a much larger part that remembered the old stories and wanted to draw the shades of John of Gaunt, of Count Selig, of Pierre le Sanguinaire, of Salazar himself around her like invisible armour.

Outside, somebody tired of waiting. The fight began with an unearthly howl from downstairs - the full moon had finally risen and the werewolf had gone to join his pack. From the screaming, he would be escorted through the veil by more than one Auror. Snape flew out of the pantry, slamming the door behind him with one last billow of his black cloak, somehow immaculate despite the dirt.

Paralysed by the influx of knowledge and fear, Susan sat still, listening to the furious whine of deflected spells, the _crack_ of Reductor Curses striking walls and the screams of the injured, missing intestines or skin _or sanity_, because the Aurors were paying in full measure for the mind and family they had broken. Paying a dreadful price, but even insanity was no defence against the Killing Curse. Eventually the cracked soprano stopped dealing _Cruciatus_ curses and fell silent.

By the sound of things, Snape was the last to go, taunting Weasley with his last breath until a woman's voice, colder than an Obliviator's heart, intoned '_Avada Kedavra_'. As if the curse had broken a spell, Susan could move again. Peering through the keyhole, she saw an empty room. Wand out, nerves tightened to the very brink of snapping, she tiptoed out and climbed a rickety Welsh dresser to reach a trap-door in the ceiling.

She knew now what she had to do, all she had left in the world. She sat, and thought, and waited on the exposed roof. Eventually, a ginger-haired head emerged from the room below, and turned to see Susan, climbing to her feet. Susan's decision was made. The House of Slytherin might be dead, but by Salazar and Circe it would not be forgotten. She raised her wand for the last time,

"_Morsmordre!"_ and reversed it, _Avada Kedavra."_

A/N: That's it. I had to get it out of my system – melodrama can be toxic in excessive doses. Hope that made you think, laugh or wonder what I'm on. For the croggled (love that word), Susan was the last Death Eater, in a manner of speaking. For those who thought Percy was a traitor, shame on you. Blood-traitor only. For those who thought well of Snape, no shame on you at all. As 'Albus Dumbledore's murderer', he didn't have much of a chance. The other 'Death Eaters' were, in order of appearance, Dawlish (ex-auror), Draco (tall, pale, handsome), Bellatrix (bet you thought it was Hermione) and Fenrir Greyback (the 'brother' is Remus, who was a really good agent). Most of the original Inner Circle died along the way or quietly surrendered.


End file.
